White Elephant Dead

by Carolyn G. Hart

  As they neared the van, Mavis said, “Did they tell you to bring another set of keys? Billy had to call the wrecker service to bring it in last night.”

  Emma nodded, opening her purse, a floppy square of beige canvas sailcloth beaded with sea shells dyed purple.

  Annie gave the huge purse a jaundiced glance. The purse was so damn big Emma probably had a half dozen copies of her books in there just to make sure dear Marigold was ever near. Then she focused on the keys in Emma’s capable hand.

  Why were the keys taken from the van last night? Henny’s keys were in her car. Max had arranged for the old Dodge to be driven to Henny’s house as well as seeing to Annie’s car. Why were there no keys in the van? That seemed odd.

  Emma held out the keys.

  Annie grimly took them. After all, she read mysteries. She could drive a murder van. Wasn’t she as tough as Liza Cody’s Anna Lee or Janet Dawson’s Jeri Howard?

  Unfortunately, no. Her hand shook and she had trouble poking the key into the lock. When it slid home, she turned the key, opened the door.

  That smell…

  Mavis might simply be a desk clerk, but she was married to a cop and she typed reports. She knew the drill. “Step away from the van.” Mavis’s voice was clipped. “Don’t touch anything.”

  Chapter 8

  Carefully skirting the artificial putting green, Barb waggled the sheaf of color prints before dropping them on Max’s desk. “Tip of the iceberg. Surprised they didn’t get a picture of him when he was teething. If I keep looking, I’ll probably find that.”

  Max stood and spread the prints across the desk, adding them to the half dozen Barb had brought earlier. Ah, the prosperous Pierces. But, as Barb had said, everybody’s got troubles. Max stared at a particular photo with an unsettling sense of déjà vu, a haggard, white-faced Dave Pierce, hair tangled, tie askew, hurrying toward a Coast Guard helicopter. A tragic coincidence? Or something much more sinister?

  Max riffled through the file, found a copy of the next day’s news story in the Island Gazette:

  LYNN PIERCE

  LOST AT SEA

  No trace has been found of accomplished island sailor Lynn Pierce, 42, whose sailboat, Just Funnin’, was discovered capsized and adrift yesterday two miles from the southern tip of Broward’s Rock by Coast Guard helicopters.

  Coast Guard Lt. Milton Farriday reported that Mrs. Pierce, wife of island resident Dave Pierce, often sailed alone. She and her husband were founding members of the Broward’s Rock Yacht Club.

  The accident was the second island boating tragedy this year. Six months earlier, Arlene Ellis, Life Style editor of the Gazette and wife of publisher Vince Ellis, was apparently swept overboard during a sudden storm. Mrs. Ellis’s body was never found.

  Lt. Farriday said yesterday the weather was clear with light winds. Mrs. Ellis, however, had taken her boat out shortly before a thunderstorm.

  A spokesman for the Pierce family said a memorial service is being planned. Mrs. Pierce is survived by her husband, Dave, of the home, and son, David Jr., New York City.

  The story was accompanied by a two-column picture of Lynn Pierce at the tiller of her sailboat, wind ruffling a sleek cap of dark hair. Despite the grainy quality of the reproduction, the newspaper photograph captured Lynn Pierce’s exuberance and, oddly, sadly, an aura of invincibility: lifted head, eager gaze, flashing smile.

  The cutline read: Lynn Pierce came in first in the Europe class race for women 35-49. Pierce is a longtime competitor in Low Country races and is treasurer of the Broward’s Rock Yacht Club.

  Max checked the dates. Lynn Pierce won that race two months before she drowned.

  There were so many other clips, he scarcely knew where to start. He chose one of the earliest:

  COMMUNICATIONS CEO

  CHOOSES ISLAND HOME

  Dave Pierce, CEO of Almerol Communications, has purchased an island show home and plans to commute to his Atlanta headquarters. Pierce, 31, was the subject of a recent article in the Wall Street Journal, citing his company as one of the fastest growing in the international field of wireless communications.

  In the article, Pierce described the beginnings of his company years ago in the garage of his Walnut Creek, California home. The company has gone from a loss of forty-three thousand dollars in its first year to a cash flow this year estimated to exceed forty million. The company is at present privately held but the Wall Street Journal reported that rumors in the market suggest Almerol may soon go public.

  Pierce moved the company’s headquarters to Atlanta after absorbing Wilton Wireless. He told the Wall Street Journal that he has plans to open offices in New York and London.

  When contacted by the Island Gazette about his new island home, Pierce said, “My wife Lynn and I have enjoyed vacationing here and we believe this will be a wonderful place for our son to grow up.” The Pierces have one son, David Jr., 2.

  “We love to sail,” Lynn Pierce announced.

  The Pierces’ new home is one of the island’s loveliest and has been the site of many parties and charitable fetes. Lynn Pierce hopes to continue that tradition. She has long been active in volunteer activities.

  Many of the photographs proved that Lynn Pierce’s hope was fulfilled. Max looked at one in particular, knowing he glimpsed a moment that had meant much to this couple. Dave and Lynn danced on a terrace strung with glimmering Japanese lanterns. Pierce’s normally stern, almost ascetic face was warmed by a sweet smile as he looked proudly at his wife, lovely in gold silk, her head flung back in laughter.

  Barb’s note read: This was one of the biggest bashes ever. Tickets sold at $250 a couple to raise money for the Humane Society.

  Max reached for the dossiers on Dave Pierce, Lynn Pierce and Janet Pierce.

  Emma, of course, had a cell phone in her shell-spangled bag.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Clyde.” Mavis quickly punched the buttons. “Billy? Mavis here. I’m out in the lot behind the station. Mrs. Clyde and Annie are here to get the van, but it smells like it’s burned inside. Arson, for sure. The chief’s gone to the Girard apartment to check out a tip. I thought I should stand by until someone can get here.”

  “First rule of police procedure,” Emma murmured to Annie. “Contain all bystanders. In The Mystery of the Movable Mugwump—”

  Annie tuned out. She was much more interested in The Mystery of the Vandalized Van. That explained the missing car keys. Last night, after Henny ran into the darkness, the murderer grabbed the keys, and then what? A bike in the back of the van? That almost had to be the answer. Otherwise, the murderer could have taken Henny’s car. Annie was sure of one fact. The murderer had to have a means of escape from Marsh Tacky Road. It was too far to walk to any of the houses on Kathryn’s list.

  Keeping a good distance from the van—Mavis was watching her carefully, ready to speak out if Annie encroached on the crime scene—Annie walked past the end and studied the crushed oyster shells. Nothing there to help. This murderer didn’t shed broken buttons, hairs or cloth fibers.

  Annie glanced toward the gate. It stood six feet tall and was open now. A chain and lock dangled from a hasp. Obviously, the lot was locked at night, but the old-fashioned chain-link fence wasn’t topped by barbed wire. On the island, keeping intruders out of the police lot obviously wasn’t a concern. Or hadn’t been until now. Gaining access late at night had been easy. There was a live oak at a far corner of the lot with spreading branches, an easy climb and drop. Then, armed with the keys, the murderer hurried to the van, unlocked the back door, sprinkled the contents with gas, tossed in a match. The murderer probably had a worried moment or two when the fire first flamed, but if no one came, and obviously no one had, it was a simple matter to give the fire fifteen minutes to burn, then slam the back door and leave, confident that the discards could no longer afford any clue to the route of the van.

  Annie gestured to Emma. “Come on, Emma. There’s no point in hanging around here. You can bet all they’ll find in the van is
a charred mess.” Annie glanced at her watch. “Let’s get back to the club. I need to get my car.”

  Max opened the dossier on Dave Pierce:

  DAVE PIERCE, 52, born in Tuscaloosa, Alabama, father Timothy, a municipal judge, mother Anna Mae Harrison Pierce, primary school teacher. Only child. Straight A’s throughout school career. Scholarship to Stanford University. Business degree. MBA Wharton School of Business. Worked with various companies in Silicon Valley until starting his own business. Type-A personality. Reputed to work seven days a week. Considered a fair but distant boss. One longtime employee said, “Dave has all the personality of a hammerhead shark but if there’s moving prey, he’s your man.” Another said, “The man’s a machine, but he’s got a heart. When my mother was dying of cancer, he let me go on extended leave and my job was there when I came back.” A high school counselor of David, Jr., said, “You hear a lot about absentee parents and money won’t take their place. I only met Dave Pierce once. That was when David received the award for Outstanding Senior Boy. But I can tell you his kid makes a room shine. That takes love.” A longtime golfing buddy said, “His game went to hell after Lynn died. He didn’t play for a couple of years.” The administrative secretary at his office, “Involved with Janet when Mrs. Pierce was alive? Absolutely not. He isn’t that kind of man. But he was lonely after she was gone and Janet’s always been his right hand. She started to work for him right out of college and she thinks he’s God.”

  There were several photos of the second Mrs. Pierce, Janet as a somersaulting high school cheerleader, competing in water ballet in college, as a graduating senior at the University of California at Northridge. Always attractive, her beauty increased with time as she matured from a plump-cheeked girl to an elegant and sophisticated woman. In several of the pictures, before the death of Lynn Pierce, she stood in the background at business gatherings, attentive and interested, blond hair upswept, small gold earrings, black suit and pumps.

  JANET MURRAY PIERCE, 46, born in Long Beach, California, father James a high school physics teacher, mother Stella Fowler Murray an oil company secretary. Middle of three daughters. Always the prettiest girl in her class. Serious. Excellent grades. College scholarship, majored in business. Her first job out of college was with Almerol. She devoted herself totally to the company. Or, as one friend observed, “She caught Dave’s attention early. She was quick, bright and worked her guts out. She put in a lot of twelve-to fourteen-hour days.” By the time the company moved to Atlanta, Janet was vice president of operations. She often came to the Pierce home at Broward’s Rock for gatherings combining business and social events. The administrative secretary tried to be nice: “Really, they’re quite a match. Man machine, woman machine. She’s still involved in running the company, though she stays on the island now and tries to do the Mrs. Dave Pierce bit. Everybody always knew she was nuts about him, but he never tumbled to it. You have to give her credit for that. Of course, I knew he was a goner after the first wife died. He never could have survived without Janet. I suppose they’re happy enough. But he used to whistle a lot when his first wife was alive. I haven’t heard him whistle in years.”

  Max closed the folder. He glanced at the clock. Almost noon. There was still time to study the dossiers on Ruth and Brian Yates before meeting Annie for lunch. As he picked up the Yates folder, the phone rang.

  The Pink Rolls-Royce glided majestically to a stop near Annie’s Volvo. As Annie opened the door—the click was right on a par with that of a bank vault—Emma observed crisply, “We shall not permit ourselves to be stymied by this setback.”

  Annie jumped out. “Certainly not.”

  “Think of Marigold in The Adventure of the Dancing Tarantula—”

  Annie was not really ready to do that.

  “—when she was faced with the locked cellar door, remember what she did?”

  Annie bent down, peered into the luxurious interior. Honestly, she’d not noticed until this minute that the leather was also pale pink. Why did she suddenly think of the healthy membranes in a wolf’s mouth? Was it because Emma was awaiting an answer, confident, of course, that Annie knew the ins and outs of every one of her marvelous plots?

  “Marigold is simply amazing!” Annie had never sounded perkier.

  Was there a glint of humor in those icy eyes? A twitch of that firm mouth? “Isn’t she, though,” Emma agreed. “I suggest we follow her example of amassing information, then conferring. Let’s meet at my house at four. We can plan our attack for tomorrow. I have to be at the club during the day but I’m confident we shall learn a great deal. And tomorrow night is the Fall Revel.”

  The Women’s Club always celebrated the successful completion of another White Elephant Sale with a magnificent party at the Island Hills Country Club.

  “Everyone will be there.” Emma tapped on the steering wheel. It was, of course, shell-pink.

  Everyone, Annie knew, meant everyone whose house had been on Kathryn’s list.

  Emma’s gaze was steely. “I shall devise a plan this afternoon.”

  Annie turned on the air-conditioning in her car. A cloud of monarchs swept past, proving it was September, though the weather had yet to break and the steamy air still felt like summer. Last night’s storm had simply added another layer of humidity. She picked up her cell phone and called.

  “Lucy Kinkaid Memorial Library,” a sweet voice announced.

  “May I speak to Edith Cummings, please?” Annie backed the car, turned, headed out of the lot.

  “Edith is on sick leave. May I take a message?”

  Annie braked at the stop sign. “Oh, I’m sorry to hear she’s sick. This is Annie Darling and I wanted to talk with her.” That was accurate. But it would have been more accurate to say she wanted to get the lowdown on some island nabobs. And where did that odd but wonderful word come from? She’d have to ask Edith, who always knew everything as librarians are wont to do.

  “Oh hi, Annie. This is Mindy Smith.” A member of the Friends of the Library who was a very good customer. “Poor old Edith. She tumbled down the main stairs and twisted both ankles. So she’s home for about a week. I’ve been meaning to call you. Do you have a first edition of Hearts and Bones by Margaret Lawrence? I love that book!”

  Annie did, too. This title was the first in a series of brilliant historical mysteries set in the period following the American Revolution. The books chronicled the life of midwife Hannah Trevor, a woman surviving turbulent and terrible times. “I sure do. I’ll hold it for you. Thanks, Mindy.”

  Annie was nearing the Seaside Inn. She punched in Edith’s home number.

  The phone was answered in mid-ring. “Hello?” Edith’s raspy voice quivered with hopefulness. She would likely have welcomed a call from a government survey.

  “Hi, Edith. This is Annie. How are you feeling?”

  “I’m waiting for deliverance,” the sour voice groused. “Not like the damn river. That would make you stick to the city forever. Then you read James Ellroy and you know the city’s even scarier. Where to go? What to do? A treehouse? A moon shot? A yellow submarine? Is this the lottery people? I’ll get on a plane to Marrakesh if I have to crawl there.” A heavy sigh. “Hello, Annie.”

  “Hey, Edith. I’m sorry about your fall.” Annie picked up speed, turned left. Edith didn’t live far from St. Mary’s. Or, by extension, from Kathryn Girard’s shop and apartment. “Are you up for company?”

  “You? Or a traveling circus? Maybe there’s a friendly python who’d like to drop over. Wiggle over? Slide over? Undulate—”

  Annie slid up to the curb, turned off the motor and waved at Edith, who was propped in a hammock on the front porch of her one-story wooden home, modest but cheerful with fresh white paint and bright green shutters. Edith waved and clicked off the cordless phone. She put the phone near a pitcher of sun tea on the table next to the hammock. Glasses, an ice bucket, a plate of assorted fruit-center cookies and a divided bowl with M&M’s and raisins were within easy reach.

&
nbsp; “Undulate, definitely,” Edith announced as Annie ran up the steps. “I wondered if you’d come by. I may be stationary, but I’d like to do my part for Henny. I’ve heard you and Max are looking for clues all over the island.” Edith adjusted a pillow behind her curly dark hair, grimaced as she moved one leg. “How’s she feeling?” Henny was the current president of the library board and a longtime volunteer with the Friends of the Library.

  “Lots better.” Annie talked fast as she told Edith everything except the foray into Kathryn Girard’s apartment.

  The librarian’s mobile face and lively black eyes reflected interest and intelligence. “The Campbells, Vince Ellis, the Pierces, the Yates. Tall cotton, Annie. Have some tea, Annie. Unsweetened.”

  Annie reached for the pitcher, refilled Edith’s glass and fixed a glass for herself. “Thanks, Edith. Hmm, fresh mint.” She twisted the mint, loved the fragrance. “Who else could afford blackmail?”

  Edith grinned. “Well put.”

  And that reminded Annie…“Edith, why do they call rich people nabobs?”

  “Nabob: A provincial deputy or governor in the old Mogul Empire in India. The Empire began in 1526 under the ruler Babur and ended in 1858. It was, by the way, the Moguls who built the Taj Mahal. Anyway, ‘nabob’ was used to describe the really rich in the 1890s and early 1900s in the United States.” Edith grinned. “Four hundred years later! Don’t you love it?” Then her face was stricken. “Annie, I’ve been meaning to call you. Do you remember during the Fourth of July festival at the library—”